


Through Space and Time

by Isis



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Cameo Appearances by Crossover Characters, Crossover Fandoms Listed in Endnote, Elements of Book Canon, Gen, Multiple Crossovers, Pre-Canon, Vague Femslashy Subtext
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-14 11:27:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13006815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isis/pseuds/Isis
Summary: On the run from the Wild Hunt, Ciri travels through a series of strange and unfamiliar worlds using the power of her Elder Blood.





	Through Space and Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vera_invenire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vera_invenire/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide, vera_invenire! You said you liked crossovers - well, I do, too, and you have very good taste in fandoms. :-)
> 
> This story is set just before Witcher 3, and can be understood without canon knowledge of any of the crossover fandoms. It's set pre-canon in all of them, so there are no real spoilers. I haven't tagged the crossover fandoms so that the reader may enjoy the Aha! moments of figuring them out, but for those who wish to peek, they're listed in the endnotes.
> 
> Huge thanks to my betas, Filigranka and kalypsobean.

The Hounds of the Wild Hunt overtook them just as they reached the stone pedestal at the edge of the meadow. There was nothing there yet, no portal or anything else, and Ciri felt her heart sink. At least she had her sword, and Avallac'h could use his magic against the beasts. But if the hounds were there, the Hunt could not be far behind.

A hound leaped at her gelding, embedding its teeth in his throat as it reared, and she jumped clear, sword in hand, before horse and hound crashed to the ground. A slash with her blade crippled it, but did not kill. Another hound tried to flank her, and she blinked to the side, then attacked again. From the corner of her eye she could see Avallac'h, also unhorsed, tossing balls of flame at the snarling creatures. She blinked again, bringing her to his side, where they could fight back-to-back and where she'd not be at risk of getting hit by one of his fireballs.

The sky darkened as they battled the hounds. The air crackled with a cold energy that Ciri couldn't identify, but knew instinctively for a threat. An approaching storm, but not a storm of the elements, not mere wind and rain. The thundering of otherworldly hoofbeats grew louder. Her heart seemed to beat with an answering rhythm; for a moment she felt as though she had no choice but to stand there, transfixed, as the Wild Hunt ran her down.

"Go, Zireael!" shouted Avallac'h. "I will hold them off! I will find you!"

One of the hounds, taking advantage of her distraction, darted through her defenses and swiped a sharp claw across her thigh. With a start, she came back to herself. He was right, she must go. She gathered her strength and focused on the task ahead, as he had taught her. She shut out the baying of hounds and the clamor of approaching horses, calmed her racing heart, then reached out with the senses and abilities she was still learning to control.

So many worlds. So many possibilities. It was as though they all shimmered in layers above one another, around each other, around _her_. Avallac'h had told her where they would be going, where she should meet him if they became separated, but it would take time to identify that destination, time she did not have. She could get there later. For now, she had only to choose one world and go there, but which one? How could she choose? Where should she go? 

Avallac'h gave her an ungentle shove. "Go! _Now!_ "

There was no time to consider. Blindly she plucked one possibility out of the multitudes.

The world dissolved around her, and was gone.

* * *

Ciri tumbled through the air, through leafy branches that snagged on her clothing and scratched her skin. _At least there_ is _air_ , she thought grimly. _At least there are trees._ She scrabbled at the branches with her hands, trying to slow her fall, and when she hit the ground she rolled as Vesemir had taught her, moving with her own momentum. She let the force of her motion bring her to her feet. Then she looked around.

She had landed in a forest. No, not a forest, not something wild and untamed; this was a tended wood. The late afternoon sun angled through widely-spaced trees, and there was a pathway among them to her left, swept clean of debris, leading toward a stone keep in the near distance. She reached to pluck a leaf from one of the trees, and saw it was the characteristic lobed leaf of the oak. Not a subspecies she immediately recognized, though she didn't know enough trees to be able to identify them with ease. If Avallac'h were with her, he'd likely take one look at the leaf in her hand and know exactly where the Gate of the Worlds had taken them. But he wasn't with her, and she didn't have any idea where she was.

She listened. Birds called to one another, and she recognized the caw of ravens and the whistling of wrens. There was a rustling in the underbrush of small animals, maybe hares or foxes. 

And voices.

Ciri moved off the path and crouched behind a shrub, more out of habit than out of any realistic hope of hiding herself. She couldn't see the people the voices belonged to, but they didn't carry any notes of alarm, so they probably hadn't seen her, either. They sounded like children's voices, high and musical. 

Children wouldn't be a threat to her; hopefully they wouldn't think her a threat, either. Maybe she could find out where she was; that would help her determine her next step. There could be a portal somewhere nearby. She took a deep breath; then, whistling as jaunty an air as she could bring to her lips, she strode along the path toward the source of the voices.

She saw them as soon as she entered the clearing: two small girls, both finely dressed, near a dark pool of water. The children of some lord of this place, clearly, though they did not look much alike. The older child was perhaps eight or nine, and had fine features under thick auburn braids, and a doll in her hands dressed in a miniature version of her own dress. The other girl, two or three years younger, had brown hair that might have once been in braids but was now loose and tangled, and had it not been for her rather muddy gown, Ciri might have taken her for a boy. Both stared at her with open curiosity.

"Where did you come from?" asked the younger. Her accent was strange to Ciri's ears, but the words were clear enough. "Is that a real sword you've got? Can I see it?"

The other girl elbowed her sharply. "Don't be rude. She must be visiting Mother and Father." She stood and made a curtsy, and then glared at her sister until she did the same. "Did you get lost in the godswood, my lady?"

"Yes, that's it exactly, I got lost. Can you tell me –" Her question was cut short by the arrival of another woman in a flurry of skirts and huffed breaths.

"There you are!" Then she caught sight of Ciri, and her voice changed. "Who are you, and what are you doing here?"

"It's all right," said the older of the two girls. "She hasn't _done_ anything."

"Sansa says she's visiting," said the younger.

The woman, who looked to be a nurse or governess of some sort, put her hands on her hips and looked Ciri up and down, clearly discomfited by the hunting trousers, the sword at her side. "Well, I don't know about that. But it's time to go back to the hall, Lady Sansa, Lady Arya." She cast a narrow, suspicious look at Ciri. "You as well. We'll see what my lord has to say, my lady...?"

"Cirilla." She followed the woman, who had one of her charges by each hand. The younger girl – Arya – kept looking back at her, so she couldn't just jump to another world. Besides, Ciri wasn't yet as skilled as she should be; she'd need to stop, to open her mind and find the pathways, and she didn't want to make the jump under others' eyes unless it was unavoidable.

In any event, the nurse did not press her further, which gave her time to consider what account she should give of herself and her presence in this place. Geralt would have advised her to give some version of the truth, as it would be easier to remember what she'd said and not contradict herself. Yennefer would have warned her to hold back and only say what was necessary. 

At the keep she was given over to a bustling seneschal, a man named Poole. She told him that she'd been traveling with a companion – true enough, and if Avallac'h had followed her here, it would explain his arrival – and that they'd been set upon by highwaymen. (Every world, she'd learned, had its thieves.) She'd spurred her horse to a gallop that was faster than prudent. "I'm afraid I did not pay attention to where he took me," she said, trying to look abashed. "I only cared that he took me far from those brigands. And then he threw me, or perhaps I was knocked off by a tree branch, I don't know. I must have lost consciousness."

The seneschal frowned. "How did you come inside our wall?"

"I'm sorry, I don't remember." _Well, that was more or less the truth. Geralt and Yennefer would both approve._ "Where am I?"

"Lady, do you not know that you are at Winterfell?"

"Winterfell," she repeated slowly. From the incredulous look the man was giving her, it was clearly a well-known place of this world. "Oh, of course! I did not know we were this near."

But she could not recall any Winterfell in the worlds she had learned of from Avallac'h or from the unicorn she'd befriended, nor in any of the worlds one could visit through the many portals of Tor Zireael. Which meant that Avallac'h, not having her gift, would not be able to follow her here. She'd have to move on as soon as she could. 

"If you took a tumble from a galloping horse, you must be hurt," he said, as he led her into the keep and down a long hallway. Near the end he used one of the many keys on the large ring hanging from his belt to open a door which gave way onto a small but tidy room, with a window overlooking the courtyard. He looked her up and down, but it was more in the manner of an appraisal than anything lascivious. "I shall send for our maester to look after your bruises." 

"Thank you." When he had left her, she frowned at her image at the small metal mirror on the wall. She could only see a small part of herself at a time, but she could tell she looked frightful. The fall through the trees had left leaves and twigs in her hair and dirt on her clothes, though the dirt was almost a minor matter next to the tears that the hounds' teeth and claws had ripped through the cloth. Definitely not how she wanted to look when meeting the lord of this place.

The maester, who came soon after she had been left in the room, turned out to be an elderly healer with an oddly-worked chain of many metals around his neck. A maidservant followed him, bearing a basin of water, a bar of soap, and a cloth. "Hmm, yes, very well," said the old man as he examined her. "Nothing seems broken, and you're a healthy young lady, aren't you. Wash those cuts and scrapes with the soap, and then use this," he said, giving her a small pot of salve. To the maidservant he added, "Bring her to Lord Stark's solar when she's finished."

The girl dipped her head in acknowledgment, then helped Ciri wash herself and apply salve to the wounds. None of them looked very bad, though the soap stung on her thigh where the hound's claw had slashed her. After the maid brushed the leaves and twigs from her hair she braided it back in the same style as the one the older girl had worn, two braids twined back to fall at the back of her head.

Impulsively Ciri asked, "Do you do the girls' hair, too?" 

"Aye, m'lady, at times. The Lady Catelyn likes to do it herself, o'course. And Lady Sansa does have fine lovely hair."

"That she does. What of the other – I think her name was Lady Arya?"

The girl giggled. "Oh, she looks a right lady in her plaits – when you can get her to sit still long enough, and not pull them out afore dinnertime!"

Ciri laughed as well. The older girl, Sansa, was clearly destined to be a beauty, and even as a child she carried herself as the lady she would become. But it was the younger one, Arya, in whom Ciri saw echoes of her own childhood. She might have been a princess of Cintra, but at that age she was happiest playing with Hjalmar and Cerys on the rocky beaches of Ard Skellige, racing them up the steep cliffs, sleeping with them all bundled up under furs and woolen blankets like a litter of puppies. 

She followed the maidservant down the hallway and out into the main yard, where a knot of boys with sticks stopped their mock-swordplay to stare at her as she passed. Perhaps they were children of the household staff, or perhaps they were the girls' elder brothers – and there was Arya, almost invisible behind a hayrick. No doubt she'd been watching them avidly and wishing she had her own sword. Ciri couldn't blame her; when she was the age those boys were, she was at Kaer Morhen, learning to fight both men and monsters. _Hopefully she'll never need to fight either. But still, it's good to know how._

Lord Stark was a gruff man with a trim beard and a manner that clearly brooked no nonsense. "How came you here?" he said when she was shown into his presence, not bothering with preamble.

"As I told your man, I don't know. My horse threw me."

"I have seen many horses in my day, and not one capable of throwing a rider over our wall." 

"My horse was quite energetic," she said. _I suppose the hounds tore him apart after I vanished._ A thought occurred to her, and she added, "If you go to your – what is it your daughter called it, your godswood? You will see where I fell through the branches." She rubbed at her head. "At least, that's what I think happened. I hit my head."

"An energetic horse, aye. Or perhaps you were dropped there by a dragon."

"A dragon!" She stared at him, confused. His tone had been light, but he looked at her with serious, probing eyes, as though he'd given a password and was waiting for the countersign. "I assure you, Lord Stark, I did not come here on dragon-back!"

He shook his head, not in disagreement but as though clearing his mind. When he spoke again, his voice was almost apologetic. "Nay, of course not. The last dragon is long gone from Westeros, and the Targaryens who once rode them gone as well. It is only that you have the look of them, with that hair." 

"I don't know these dragon-riders you speak of, but they are no kin of mine. My name is Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, and I am a very long way from home."

"Aye, I can tell from your speech and your manner of dress that you are not from the North. Not from Westeros at all, I'd wager. Are you Braavosi, then? Or from Pentos?" 

She could have agreed to either of these, though it might be dangerous, for she had no idea where either of those places were, or even if they existed. Perhaps he was trying to trap her into an unwise admission. In her mind she heard Geralt's admonishment: _Lies have a way of coming back to bite you on your backside._ "Farther away than those places," she said. Not a lie, but not the whole truth. "And I must travel farther still."

"Why should we trust you, who have dropped from the sky into Winterfell?" Though his words were harsh, his expression was sympathetic. He was asking for the truth she could not tell him – the truth he wouldn't understand. 

A twinge of guilt passed through her. She thought again of this man's daughters; she should not linger here. If the Wild Hunt came down on this place in her wake it would be her fault. The more distance she put between herself and them, the harder it would be for them to find her. 

"You need not trust me," she said, squarely meeting his eyes. "I promise I mean no harm to you or to your family, and I will be gone as soon as I am able. I'm only trying to prevent a disaster from overtaking me and my home."

The edge of his mouth quirked in what was almost a smile. His eyes went to the banner that hung on the wall, a gray wolf on a snow-white field, then back to her. "Aye. Winter is coming."

She stared at him. _That's Ithlinne's prophecy! 'Nigh is the time of the White Frost and White Light.'_ "You know of the White Frost?" she demanded.

"Those are the words of House Stark. Others may be fooled by warm skies and fine harvests. We plan, and prepare."

There was no possible preparation for Tedd Deireadh. But still, something in her heart eased. These people would not be taken by surprise, even if the Wild Hunt did follow in her wake. 

"I must plan and prepare as well," she said. "I must leave at once, but thank you for your hospitality."

Lord Stark frowned. "Do you wish us to loan you a horse? We have none so...energetic as yours," he said, inclining his head in an ironic nod, "but we could spare one. Or we could send a raven to inquire after your friend."

Ciri shook her head. "You are very kind, but I need nothing more."

"We would not be such poor hosts as to leave you on your own. You shall join us for dinner, and on the morrow I will find a horse for you."

She could agree, and then as soon as she was alone again, disappear. Perhaps that was what she _should_ do. But this man had been kind and forthright to her. The only coin with she could pay him back was honesty. "Will you walk with me to the gate?"

He looked puzzled, but nodded. Glancing at her sword, he reached for his own sword belt and buckled it on, then offered her his arm.

The boys were still thrusting and parrying with their sticks as they walked through the courtyard. Of course they were his sons, she realized; they had his looks and his manner, and they puffed out their chests as they walked by. Young Arya was nowhere to be seen. Serving girls and working men paused in their labors to incline their heads, but then went back to their tasks. This Lord Stark was clearly beloved of his people.

"This is the gate to the Kingsroad," he said, as they passed between the walls. "Gods grant it carry you safely to the place you must go."

Ciri closed her eyes and reached out with her mind, trying to locate the world where she was to meet Avallac'h. Space and time stretched out in all directions, a dizzying and unfamiliar array, but one of the dimensions that was open to her seemed _right_ , somehow, in a way she couldn't identify. An instinct she didn't understand told her that it would bring her closer to her destination; not much to go on, but she had nothing else. 

"I need no road," she said, opening her eyes again for one last look. "But you are right; winter is coming. I will do what I can to keep it from swallowing us all." Then she reached for her power, and as Lord Stark watched, astonished, she blinked away from Winterfell.

* * *

"Zireael," said Eredin. He did not bother to dismount, nor to lift the visor of his fearsome helmet. The others reined up just behind him, their spectral horses stamping and snorting, the remaining hounds capering about their feet. "Where is she?"

"Far from us both," said Avallac'h, matching Eredin's arrogance with an uplifted chin and firmly set shoulders. He was Aen Saevherne. He would not show deference or weakness before Auberon's killer. "She has used the power of her blood."

"I will take that power. Do not stand in my way."

Ostentatiously, he took one step to the side. It brought him closer to the flat rock, but he had no wish to draw Eredin's attention to it, and so did not give it even a glance. "There. I am no longer in your way."

He could see Imlerith and Eredin place their hands on the hilts of their swords, sense the exact moment that Caranthir began to reach for his magic. 

Avallac'h was faster.

He flung out his hands and whispered the words to stun them with a blast of power. It would not injure them, only knock them back for a short time, but a short time was all that he needed.

The horses and their uncanny riders froze in place, paralyzed, just as the portal appeared on the stone pedestal, exactly where and when his calculations had predicted. His timing was perfect; the gate would disappear before they could follow. Eventually Caranthir would be able to determine where it had led, but by then, Avallac'h would be elsewhere. 

By then, he hoped, he would be with Cirilla again.

He had not wanted to send her on without him, but if he had not, she would be here, and despite her abilities and his, they were not a match for the half-dozen Dearg Ruadhri. Her powers were tricky and hard to predict, but he would find her. He had to find her. 

He ran through the shimmering magic of the portal, and did not look back. He had plotted his moves out and executed them with the precision of clockwork. Across the burning sands to the next portal, between the standing stones and up an icy, rocky slope to the next, ever farther up the Spiral. 

The third world was a civilized one, relatively speaking. It was an outpost that had been settled by elves long ago, even before the Conjunction of the Spheres. It had been so long that the language spoken there had developed and changed into its own dialect, distinct from both Ellylon and Hen Linge, and its elves had their own peculiar customs which Avallac'h found rather backward. Still, if by some chance Cirilla had landed here he could find her, and if not, there was a portal that would take him to the world where, he hoped, she was even now making her way.

* * *

He stepped out of the portal and into a stone store-room. There was barely enough room between the piles of bolts of cloth to make his way to the door; the people here did not value travel to other worlds, and the existence of the few portals here was a closely-guarded secret among their senior mages. He listened for a moment at the door, but heard no voices or movement from the other side. He opened the door a fraction and slid out into the corridor beyond.

Time was a strange thing along the Spiral, and it was possible that things had changed greatly since his last visit. He hurried along the deserted hallways of the basement of this mages' palace, which looked no different than before. The route he took had been carefully designed to keep travelers from other worlds away from the eyes of those who lived and worked here. Eventually he came to the door which opened to a hidden stairway; this would take him to the office of the mage who was his best contact here, who though not Aen Saevherne was the most powerful and learned mage on this world.

At the top of the stairs was another door, and here, too, he stopped to listen. He did not want to step out into a meeting and have to explain himself, nor did he want to be unprepared if the mage he knew had died or retired, and the current occupant of the office had not been briefed on the portal and its capacities. He put back his hood, squared his shoulders, and opened the door.

To his relief, it was his old acquaintance Sehalis Adremaza who sat at the desk. His hair was in a single plait down his back, and he wore the pale blue robe of his office, finely worked with embroidery to indicate his rank, though it was frayed around the edges with long use. He looked up with mild surprise as Avallac'h entered the room, then stood to greet him. 

"Dach'Osmer Caomhanmachar," he said, nodding. "It has been many years since you have graced our Mazan'theileian with your presence. We hope there is no catastrophe brewing in your world or in ours."

As usual, Sehalis mangled his name into the forms the elves here used, but Avallac'h understood him well enough. He spoke in similar tones, careful to mirror the Adremaza's use of the formal plural, a mark of respect that had fallen out of usage long ago in the language as Avallac'h knew it. "It is good to see you, old friend. No, no catastrophe, or so we hope. But we have a student who is in great danger. She is traveling the worlds to escape a group of powerful Aen Elle who mean her great harm, and we must find her before they do."

"A student – a woman?"

"We know you do not teach women the magic arts here. But she is – she has a power that must be trained."

To his surprise, Sehalis Adremaza laughed. "We have a woman here at the Mazan'theileian who has trained as dachenmaza, though she is unlikely to be accepted in the Untheileneise Court. Yet she insisted, and to tell the truth she has shown great promise, and so we are pleased to have her here."

"That is interesting news, indeed," said Avallac'h. Change, it seemed, came to all worlds. "But we would ask – have you seen the young woman we seek? She is young, with ashen hair, and a scar on her face. She wears trousers as males do on our world, and carries a sword."

"We hope she is skilled with it," said the Adremaza stiffly. It was clear that despite his own female student, he still disapproved of women taking up the arts he felt should be reserved for men. "We have not seen her, though we must add that we do not often leave the Untheileneise Court."

"Perhaps you have heard talk of her? She is...." Avallac'h hesitated. The _dh'oine_ did not live on this world, only these Aen Seidhe elves and a dark-skinned offshoot race locally called goblins, though they did not resemble the goblins of the Continent. "She is of not of our kind," he finally said, using the regular plural rather than the formal plural, to indicate the distant kinship he and the Adremaza shared. "She looks much as we do, but she is smaller and her face is broader, and her ears have no points."

"How odd," murmured Sehalis Adremaza, the points of his own ears twitching. "No, we have heard no reports of such a person in the court, or indeed anywhere in Cetho."

"Then we must set off to the portal in Thu-Athamar. It is the first step in the journey from here to the world where we are to meet." If Cirilla could control her powers enough to locate that world, and transport herself there. If the Wild Hunt had not already taken her...

"As it happens, in two days His Serenity will be taking the airship _Strength of Rosiro_ to Amalo with his family and retainers. That is not far from the portal, an I recall correctly. It may not be possible, mind, but as you are an honored friend of ours, perhaps we could see if there is room for you on the airship?"

"Nay, we thank you, but a good horse is all we require." Admittedly it would be much faster to travel by airship, but he disliked the things, and in any event the two days of idleness would nearly erase the advantage of speed. He would rather not come to the attention of the King here – no, he recalled, they called him Emperor, in this world. And if Cirilla had come here, there was no reason she would have arrived in the capital city of Cetho. Her blood would have bent its power toward this part of the world, called the Elflands for its inhabitants, but she could be anywhere in the Elflands, if she were here. Perhaps he would find her on the road.

"So be it. But it is rather late to set out on such a journey. You shall dine with us tonight, if that suits you?" At Avallac'h's nod, he continued: "We shall have a room prepared for you here in the Mazan'theileian, and on the morrow we shall procure you a mount. May the gods grant you success in your search."

* * *

This time there was no forest. Instead she appeared in a town square, surrounded by people carrying pitchforks and torches, shouting insults and shaking their fists. This would normally have been something to worry about, except that nobody was looking at _her_. Every eye was on a family that cowered against the side of a market stall, the mother shielding her two young boys with her arms, the father waving his arms in the air with a look of defiance.

Not waving his arms – working some magic. She had just enough time to notice that the sigil his fingers described in the air resembled a distorted Igni sign, before the fire at the end of the torch carried by one of the men in front of her, closer to the embattled family, erupted into blazing streams, coiling and writhing like snakes made of flame. The man cried out and dropped the torch, but the flames leapt up his arms and around his shoulders, and he fell to the ground, screaming, rolling in the dirt to extinguish the fires.

A silence fell on the crowd, broken only by the burning man's screams, which quickly faded as the flames went out. Then the man who had made the sign called out, in heavily-accented Common Speech: "Please, we mean not to harm you! It is only that you attack us! Please!"

"Witches!" cried a woman to Ciri's right. She waved a kitchen knife in the air. "You set Collen afire!"

Murmurs and shouts from the mob agreed. "Kill the Ravkan witches!" Their accents and clothing would have fit in anywhere in Temeria, and for a moment Ciri wondered if she'd somehow landed herself back there. But no, the air felt different somehow, the whole _place_ felt different. She was certain she was farther from home than she'd been in Winterfell, not nearer.

"We mean not to harm you," repeated the man. "But we will defend ourselves." He nodded to his wife. She stepped to the far side of the two young boys, and all four family members, looking scared but defiant, raised their hands in the direction of the crowd.

"You'll not burn us," growled a voice. "Put out your torches so they can't use them!"

A ripple passed through the crowd as they stubbed out their torches in the ground, extinguishing the last flames even as they flared with the power the man and his family channeled into them. And then – the mob surged forward.

Ciri did not have to think twice. With a twitch of her powers she blinked into the small space between the crowd and the family, her sword in her hand. At first she tried to only knock away the cudgels and pitchforks, but there were too many of them, too many screaming men and women trying to get at the desperate family. She slashed at a club and hit the hand that wielded it, and then there was no point in trying not to hurt anyone. 

The family seemed to have no other powers – no signs other than their peculiar version of Igni, and no weapons to wield. They lashed out with their fists, but that was not enough. Ciri tried to position herself where she could protect the children, but there were too many attackers. 

A tall man holding a mattock loomed over Ciri, his eyes crazed and his reddish beard flecked with spittle, and she had only a moment in which to decide whether to try to stand against him, and be broken by the blow, or to blink out of the way and leave the boy behind her defenseless, when suddenly he stopped, and gasped, and slumped to the ground. She looked around with shock as all the men and women in the leading edge of the mob did the same, their eyes rolling up into their heads and their bodies toppling like felled trees. Behind them the rest of the crowd murmured and surged forward; but then a great wind sprung up out of nowhere, a swirling mass of dust and dead leaves, and like a giant battering ram it hit the crowd and knocked them off their feet.

"Who is there?" cried the mother, behind her. She pulled her children to her, called to her husband in a musical language Ciri didn't recognize, rich with harsh consonants and sounds formed deep in the throat.

From the shadows stepped a small group of men and women who responded in the same language. At their forefront was a slim, black-haired woman, who frowned at Ciri, then said something that from its rising intonation was clearly a question.

"I'm sorry, I don't speak –"

The black-haired woman made a gesture, and Ciri found herself knocked to the ground by an invisible fist.

 _Some kind of_ _Aard_ , she thought. _Fine, play it your way._ She blinked behind the group of strangers, and their momentary confusion gave her time to pull herself to her feet. There was no point in attacking them; they were clearly there to rescue the fire-users, and that was all Ciri had been trying to do, anyway. Already one of them was with the mother, reassuring her and the two boys in their strange language, and another was talking with the father. She'd just slip off quietly and find her bearings, and....

And she woke up on a lumpy mattress in a candle-lit tent, hands bound with twine, and her head hammering as though she'd drunk too much Kaedweni stout.

"Are you all right now?" The voice was female, and sounded Temerian, like the peasants in the mob, but then another voice – it sounded like the woman who had used Aard against her – spoke in their unfamiliar language, and the first woman responded in the same way. Then: "I'm sorry, Zoya says I must ask. How is it that you can disappear and reappear, when our Examiner says you are not Grisha?"

"Grisha?" It wasn't a word she'd heard before. She squinted to focus. The woman who was speaking to her, sitting on a camp stool, seemed about Ciri's own age, but otherwise they had little in common, at least physically. She had big breasts and wide hips, and soft hands that had clearly never wielded a sword. Her brown hair was pulled back from her face, which made her eyes look huge, and Ciri thought she saw sympathy there. She made a small motion with her fingers, and Ciri found her headache fading away.

The black-haired woman – Zoya – stood behind her. "Answer the question, please," she said. She had a strong accent, like the man who had controlled the fires. 

_Well, these women were certainly not part of the Wild Hunt._ "It's my heritage, from my mother's line. The Elder Blood, it's called." She waited a moment, but saw no spark of recognition in either face. "And you are sorceresses. Like my – I have friends, in the Lodge of Sorceresses, where I'm from."

"There are more who use magic here?" Her eyes widened even more; she looked, Ciri thought, surprised and delighted. "Where? Can you tell us?"

"Not here, I'm afraid. I am a stranger in this land." _A stranger on this world._

"But you speak Kaelish. And you don't look Shu, or Suli, or Zemeni. Where are you from? Where are the – the sorceresses?" 

Ciri considered. If they wanted information from her, she wanted something in return. "Can you untie me, please? And give me some water? And maybe some food?" It had been a long time since her last meal. 

The two women conferred briefly. Zoya flicked out a knife and cut through the twine, then lifted the tent's doorflap and called out something before returning to stand behind the camp stool. In the meantime, Ciri looked around the tent. Her sword and belt were on the other side of the tent, near the door, as was her boot-knife. No surprise they'd disarmed her while she was knocked out. When the doorflap moved, she could see it was dark outside. She wondered how long she'd been unconscious.

A man came into the tent with a water jug, a glass, and a plate of brown bread and cheese, placed them on the ground next to the mattress, then left. Ciri pulled herself up to a sitting position, filled the glass, and took a long drink. It was good, fresh, cold water. She took a bite of the bread and cheese, then another. "Thank you."

To her surprise, the girl who sat on the camp stool got up, and moved to sit beside her. "There, now we can talk like equals. I am Nina, and I am a Grisha Heartrender." Her pride in this was evident in her voice. "Zoya is a Squaller, the best of them. She didn't think I should tell you about us, but it's clear to me that you are on our side, even if you are not exactly Grisha. You were trying to help the Inferni, weren't you."

It was a bewildering combination of words she knew and words she didn't understand. "The Inferni? You mean the family who could control flames??

"Yes, they are Grisha Etherealki, like Zoya. They command the element of fire, and so the village folk were frightened of them."

"Their powers are pretty frightening! But I couldn't stand by and watch them be killed," she said. "The common folk fear witchers and sorceresses in every place, and where there is fear there is hate."

"They call us witches, yes. But we are Grisha."

Ciri didn't bother to correct her. Different names for things on different worlds, she figured. "So, can you tell me where I am?"

Nina frowned. "How can you be in a place and not know where you are?"

"My power to move from one place to another is not completely under my control." _A version of the truth, but only as much detail as was necessary._ "I was being chased by bandits, and panicked. I didn't know how far I'd gone. But I know I'm far from home."

"But you speak Kaelish."

"We don't call it that, where I'm from."

"And where is that?"

"Cintra," she said. After all, that was the truth.

"I have not heard of a place called Cintra," said Zoya. 

"I have not heard of a place called – what did you say, Kael?"

"That's not a place," said Nina. "They call this place the Wandering Isle. Kaelish is the language they speak here."

"Stop telling her things," said Zoya. "You should be finding out things from her."

"I will tell you what I know, but I don't think it will help you. And I haven't heard of the Wandering Isle, either." It wasn't a familiar name from her studies of the Spiral and the Spheres. It wasn't the place she was to meet Avallac'h.

Nina nodded slowly, and then stretched out her hands toward Ciri, lightly touching her shoulders with her fingertips. After a moment she exhaled and lifted her hands away. "Her blood is different. As she said. I believe her."

"You are not Grisha, and the sorceresses you speak of, if they are like you, they are not Grisha, either." Zoya sniffed. "So. Not so useful."

Ciri tensed. She didn't want to leave without her sword and knife, but she could if she had to. Or maybe she could dive across the tent, grab her things, and then – 

"It's all right," said Nina softly. She made a motion with her hands, and oddly, Ciri felt herself relax, the impulse to flee ebbing. "We're not going to hurt you. We are only trying to find other Grisha, like us." She looked up at Zoya, who gave a grudging nod. "You can leave, if you like. I'm sure you want to go back to your home."

 _Not home, but I do need to go._ She nodded, but bit her lip, thinking. She was pretty sure that if she concentrated, she could find the right world, and get there with just one jump. But she was too tired to concentrate just now. "I saw it was dark outside. Is it late? I'm – do you think I could sleep here, and go in the morning?"

Nina looked delighted. "Yes, yes. You can stay with me, in my tent – Zoya, it will be fine, stop fussing – and we can have a real dinner together, not just bread and cheese. And you can tell me about Cintra, and about the sorceresses who are not Grisha." She stood and offered Ciri her hand. "Come on – if you're leaving in the morning, we need to start now!"

* * *

Avallac'h was leaning on the rail of the _Siren's Call_ , talking with Isabela, when a heavyset man came up the gangway. He put his fingers to his cap by way of a deferential greeting. "Captain. There is something you should see, I think."

"What is it, Brand?"

" _Who_ is it?" said Avallac'h. He had caught the undertone in the man's voice.

Brand frowned at Avallac'h – the elves in this world were a degraded race, like those on the Continent, scorned and dismissed by the _dh'oine_ who arrogantly considered the world their own, and clearly he thought Avallac'h no better than the elves he knew – and then turned back to Isabela. "Yes, it is a who and not a what. There is a woman in the warehouse. She claims she did not come to steal –" 

"Has she ashen hair, and a scar on her face?" Avallac'h interrupted. 

"Yes." Suspicion bloomed on Brand's broad face. "You know this woman? Why is she in our warehouse?"

He exhaled with relief, and turned to Isabela. "That is the woman I spoke of, that was to meet me here."

"And why would she be in our warehouse?" demanded Brand again. "Who are you, elf, that you arrange your assignations on our property?"

"Oh, shut up, Brand," said Isabela. "Though he does raise a good point." She turned to Avallac'h, lifting an eyebrow in inquiry.

He forced himself to ignore the man's rudeness. "This warehouse of yours, is it near Arami's shop? The tailor?"

"They share a wall at the back, yes."

"That explains it, then." Arami's shop had once been the workshop of a powerful mage, and the portal that connected this world to others was in the tailor's storeroom, behind a false wall. He had brought Cirilla through that portal some time ago while instructing her in the use of her power. Though they'd been here only briefly, that memory was doubtless within the cells of her body, if not in her mind. And so when she had been able to turn her focus on this world, she had naturally come through close to the place where she had been before. 

He turned to Brand. "She has the power to teleport from one place to another, and she has been in that shop before, so that is where she tried to go. She must have miscalculated the exact spot." It was only a partial explanation, but it would suffice, he thought. Isabela's people would see Cirilla's powers soon enough, and they were like enough to the abilities some used here that they should not raise questions. "Can you take me there?"

Isabela insisted upon coming along – it was her warehouse, after all, as she pointed out. He could hear raised voices even before they got to the back room, and had to smile to himself; Cirilla was not one to be cowed or pushed around. Much like Isabela, actually. He'd become well acquainted with the pirate captain years ago, shortly after she'd taken command of the _Siren's Call_ , and she was not altogether insufferable, for a _dh'oine_. 

He'd come through the portal to Thedas only the day before, and, after verifying that Cirilla had not already arrived, he set about making contact with the people he knew in this world. He'd been pleased to see the _Siren's Call_ at the dock; Isabela was intelligent and frighteningly good with her pair of daggers, and more importantly, she owed him a favor. 

Isabela pushed the door open. "What's this?" she demanded.

Avallac'h could see well enough what had happened. Two men sprawled on the concrete floor, unconscious or dead; three others, armed and wary, surrounded Cirilla.

"Hold!" he called, striding into the room. 

"They're _my_ men," muttered Isabela sourly, but Cirilla had already run to him and thrown her arms around him in a quick, awkward embrace before stepping back and sheathing her sword. Fortunately for her, the armed men had seen their leader enter and did not take the opportunity to attack.

"I'm so glad to see you, finally." She wiped her face with a sleeve; whether sweat or tears, he did not know. "I hope you know these people."

"I do. Isabela, this is Cirilla Fiona Elen Ria–"

"Just Ciri, please." Her voice was firm as she dipped her head in Isabela's direction.

"Well, well, well," said Isabela. "Who knew you were keeping a lovely girl like this?"

"She's not my lover," he snapped.

"Even better." Her tone was unmistakable, and he sighed. Maybe it had been a mistake to bring Cirilla to this world. The point was to keep her safe, not to get her involved with an amoral pirate of dubious reputation. No matter the world, the _dh'oine_ seemed to share the typical animal animal predilections of their race. It was a small comfort to know that if Cirilla did let Isabela bed her, at least there'd be no risk of an unwelcome pregnancy – unlike Lara Dorren's, whose unwise relationship had set in motion everything that had lead to this point.

But all things considered, this was their best course of action. It was a long way up the Spiral from the place where the Wild Hunt had overtaken them, and Isabela had agreed to his terms. Caranthir was a skilled navigator of worlds, due to Avallac'h's own experimentation, but it would take him time to find Cirilla's traces, and time to locate this world. And even if the Dearg Ruadhri did so, and followed, it would take them time to find the moving target of the _Siren's Call_. 

"I can speak for myself," said Ciri. She met Isabela's eyes with a smile that Avallac'h hoped she would not regret. "And it's very nice to meet you, Isabela. Now, can we get out of this warehouse and somewhere I can clean off this blood?"

* * *

Ciri watched the coastline change as they approached, the rough shapes of islets and city walls gaining definition and bulk as the _Siren's Call_ drew near. It had surprised her how much she enjoyed being on the ship over the past months. Isabela's offer of sanctuary had come with strings attached, but they were not unpleasant ones. Working alongside the crew, loading crates, hauling sails, bringing in fish – it gave her something to do, something other than running from the Wild Hunt. The smell of the sea and the sounds of the waves against the hull reminded her of her childhood in the Skellige Isles. Even Avallac'h seemed to relax a little, though he mostly kept to himself, studying his books during the days in the space Isabela had allotted him in her cabin, and emerging only for meals and to work with her on refining her powers.

At first the crewmen had been wary, uneasy about her abilities and distrustful of Avallac'h. They didn't like elves here, nor did they care for mages, particularly those who were not part of their Circle of Magi. But Isabela's acceptance of them had smoothed the way, and eventually they had decided that as long as she pulled her weight alongside them – as she strove to do – they would overlook odd habits like occasional teleportation. 

The first practice was teleporting from the bow of the ship to its stern and back again, a distance much farther than her usual blinks – while the ship was underway. It had taken her a few tries until she could do it without falling into the water and needing to be rescued. Then it was from ship to shore, first visible locations, then far-off ones. She had done it on her own, and with a sack full of grain, and finally, when he was certain she could do it without killing him, with Avallac'h in her arms. 

In a way it reminded her of her training with Vesemir and Geralt, both the repetitive practice and the severe consequences of every failure. Admittedly, landing in the sea was far less painful than being knocked off the fenceposts of Kaer Morhen by the swinging training dummy – but it was a bit embarrassing to have to be fished out by the laughing sailors of Isabela's crew. Of course what she really needed was to perfect her travel through the planes of existence. But Avallac'h assured her that practice in one would improve her control over the other, and Vesemir had drummed into her the value of fundamental exercises, so every moment she could spare from her duties was spent practicing. Back and forth from bow to stern and from ship to shore, over and over, until she could do it, she thought, in her sleep.

When they tied up at the dock she sprang into action, helping unload the goods from the hold. It was full of crates of rich fabrics and crafted metal, some taken on as legitimate cargo, others liberated from unlucky merchant vessels they'd intercepted and boarded. 

As they finished loading the first wagon, Avallac'h appeared behind her. "Don't go into the city with them," he said sharply. "And you should cover your hair."

"It's too hot," she grumbled, but pulled her hood up over her head. "And it's been ages since I've been in a city."

"I've sent Celso to the Pearl to take rooms for me. And to listen for rumors," said Isabela. "Denerim's not a huge city, but it's the largest in Ferelden. If those huntsmen are here, a pickpocket will have overheard a merchant talking about his ladyfriend's maid's man who saw them. If they're not?" She grinned. "I'll show you around my favorite taverns."

"I'll take that offer," said Ciri. "This is thirsty work."

"Then get back to it, and stop slacking," she said, twinkling eyes belying her stern words. She turned to Avallac'h. "How about you, elf? Work to be done here."

Ciri was already on her way back to the top of the gangway to move more crates, and didn't hear his reply. She could guess what it was, though: something disdainful and arrogant about the important work he _was_ doing, the magic he was working to discover whether the Wild Hunt had followed them here.

Nothing she could do if they had, though, so she absorbed herself in the physical labor, lifting and hauling and moving things out of the ship and onto the dock. But she kept an eye on the road that led toward the main part of the city, and when she spotted Celso loping back to the docks, she slipped back down to where she could listen in on his report to Isabela.

"I didn't hear anything quite like the elf said," he was saying as she drew near. "But some strange talk, to be sure. Revenants riding through Orlais and heading for the Frostback Mountains, in company with Blight wolves, or something like. And the horses, they say, are like demons in horse form, not living horseflesh at all."

"The Hunt," said Ciri, feeling her heart sink. She looked toward Avallac'h for confirmation.

He nodded grimly. "I had hoped we would have more time. But this place is no longer safe for you."

"Frostback Pass is still a long way from here," said Isabela.

"Not far enough. We must go while we can."

Ciri pushed back her hood. "I'm tired of running."

"Then we must choose where to make our stand."

"Home," she declared. "I want to go home." Back to a place where everybody spoke the Common Tongue in familiar accents; back to Geralt, and Vesemir, and Yen. It had been nice to pretend that she'd just been one of Isabela's crew, but she couldn't ignore the Hunt any longer. She turned to Isabela and took her hands. "I can't thank you enough. I'll miss you."

Isabela put her arms around her and gave her a short, hard hug. "If you come back, there'll be a place for you on my ship."

"Zireael," said Avallac'h. "You must take us both back to your world, as the portal is far from here, and I would not leave you on your own. Is there a place you can fix in your mind well enough to transport us both?"

She dropped Isabela's hands and took a deep breath of the sea air, listening to the raucous cries of the seagulls as they wheeled overhead. "The Isles of Skellige," she said. "I want to go back to Skellige."

"Then let us go."

She nodded and took his hand, and then fixed Ard Skellige in her mind. _The shingle beach, the sirens, the waves crashing against the rocks. The way the sea there smells, like this one but different._ She closed her eyes, reached out with her mind...

...and jumped.

**Author's Note:**

> Crossover fandoms in order of appearance:
> 
> A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin  
> The Goblin Emperor - Katherine Addison  
> Six of Crows series - Leigh Bardugo  
> Dragon Age (Video Game)
> 
> The title of the fic is, of course, from the Witcher 3 quest of the same name.


End file.
